Night Observatories #2

by June 3, 2011 0 comments

The cornflowers of these fogs go past hope and in their divine fate, they offer mauve nights between the second and the third fingers, the cigarette – solitary, ephemeral pleasure – burns away grandiloquently, the speakers of this funeral parlour and the encyclopedias turn their saffron pages producing the blue wish but the wind feels trapped and the poisoned cells drift into black vaults.

editors note:

Got lost in here for a bit; kinda scary and magical. Tripped on a blue wish, banged my shins on a black vault. I was just lookin’ for a smoke… – mh

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